


recalibration

by lyeon



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyeon/pseuds/lyeon
Summary: By the time he clears the corner Travis is on his feet, arms braced on the chest of someone much larger who’s standing with his back towards towards the door. Ivan does not let his pulse race. Travis’ hair sticks to his face as he shoves the person back.“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?”At the same time they twist and the angle shifts and the man’s face catches the light just as Travis snarls again.“Who the fuck is thirty four?”





	recalibration

**Author's Note:**

> ambiguous dystopia hockey feat. a handful of rookies and one very worn out orange captain

It starts off worse than he expects. Are there words to describe how heavy that deadweight on his chest had felt like after he’d slipped in Chicago? His stick flickered on and off as he’d lost hold of it, powerless to do anything but watch the puck sail past Mase and into the back of the net. That dead pressure he felt right above his heart, not from the weight of the body plates or from the adrenaline of having a lighted weapon swung too close to your face.

The roar of the crowd rang in his ears for hours after, lingering in the back of his skull even as Roman took him aside, and spoke softly to him in words neither of them got to use very often.

Then Giroux talked to him too, murmuring in a voice lower than what he usually uses when he’s thrust ahead to speak for all of them.

“You know it’s alright, yeah? You can't pin everything on yourself.”

Ivan tried his best not to grimace. He knows what the organisation thinks he will become for them.

“But I’m better than that. I mean, I can be. That wasn't good enough. But I am.”

For a moment Giroux didn't seem particularly inclined to continuing. He let the silence hang between them, the only sound between the near-inaudible whirr of the tiny motors in his wrists as he scratched at the sides of his beard.

He cracked a smile then, even though Ivan hadn't moved. Hadn't even said anything else.

“You definitely are. But trust us, Provy. We’re not that old, or that broken. There’s time.” A grin. “And we’ll see them again soon enough, eh?”

But that was months ago, wasn't it?

Now Ivan hears Travis before he sees him. It’s not particularly surprising. He’s not surprised. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before, having to slip out of dingy accommodation blocks, past dimly lit ground lobbies - praying MacDonald and Gudas weren't sitting there with bags under their eyes, or worse - running into Mason and Simmonds who fall silent at the sight at him, and watch him with a look he can't vocalise in their eyes.

Not today. He’d moved quietly until he managed to get to one of the side corridor back doors and out. It’s still League territory after all.

He gets closer to the voices, past the bodies in his way, the clink of glass falling to the ground, something scraping across cheap laminate flooring. There's not even much of a crowd to push through but he’s - he’s too slow - he can hear voices swelling and rising. By the time he clears the corner Travis is on his feet, arms braced on the chest of someone much larger who’s standing with his back towards towards the door. Ivan does not let his pulse race. Travis’ hair sticks to his face as he shoves the person back.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?”

At the same time they twist and the angle shifts and the man’s face catches the light just as Travis snarls again.

“Who the fuck is thirty four?”

Thirty four. Ivan actively does not flinch as Auston’s face remains placid, blank. Auston brushes Travis’ hands off him like they were nothing (and internally Ivan sighs, because that kind of casual dismissal would never be a good move with Travis), before turning and stepping away.

“You came.”

“Thanks for calling me.”

“What? What the fuck - you called him here?” Travis turns to Ivan, face turned blotchy and red from the stifling indoor heat and rage. Ivan wonders if he’d taken anything, wonders if anyone here would have sold him what he asked for. “I told you I’ll be back before curfew. What-” he cuts himself off, blanching suddenly. “Did Hak ask?”

“No,” Ivan says. “No, he didn’t.”

Travis looks at him, as if expecting more, but Ivan doesn’t elaborate. Eventually Travis’ hands fall to his sides, and it’s like the fight has left him completely. He shoves past Auston one more time for good measure, but lets Ivan place a hand on his shoulder as he makes his way past them.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan says. Auston doesn’t meet his eyes, until he does.

“It’s nothing,” Auston says. His tone is flat, but there’s something warm in his eyes, Ivan thinks. There must be, or he’d never have called him here in the first place.

“We’ve got to look out for each other.” Auston pauses. He chooses his words slowly. “There’s nobody else."

Ivan returns the sentiment with a nod. He and Auston are nothing alike, except for this gaping expanse they share between them that they have to cross and both need to understand.

“I’ll see you around,” Auston says, before turning away, going back to where Rielly was sitting with one eye fixed on them since Ivan had walked into the room.

They’re in the same situation, he thinks again, but they’re nothing alike. For a moment Ivan is viscerally thankful for Giroux and the infinite things he does to keep them going, as best as he can. Without him - and he knows, he knows it’s a matter of time - what would they be without him? It's by necessity not unfathomable but - the time to act on it remains far enough away.

He puts it aside. Travis is outside, and it’s time for them to go.

**Author's Note:**

> [who the fuck is 34](https://streamable.com/pyou): a classic


End file.
